


Some Starless Night

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [13]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Hell, Pre-Canon, Smut, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:29:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22710148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Mazikeen wasn’t often brought to Earth, especially not when there was no fighting to be done, but this dusty, rocky place that reminded her of Gehenna was empty of both man and beast. Empty of everything but the breath of the wind rustling the scrubland and the gentle light of the stars, bathing this world in a soft, pleasant glow.She wasn’t used to quietorempty, and she feared both. And what she feared angered her.
Relationships: Mazikeen/Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	Some Starless Night

**Author's Note:**

> Day 13! Prompt: No Talking/Breathplay

Mazikeen wasn’t often brought to Earth, especially not when there was no fighting to be done, but this dusty, rocky place that reminded her of Gehenna was empty of both man and beast. Empty of everything but the breath of the wind rustling the scrubland and the gentle light of the stars, bathing this world in a soft, pleasant glow.

She wasn’t used to quiet _or_ empty, and she feared both. And what she feared angered her.

She gritted her teeth, half a step behind Lucifer as he led her over cracked ground to jagged cliffs that reached into the sky like the spire of his high throne. The way was steep and narrow, but she was sure-footed and did not cry out when the sharp edges of the stone dug into her flesh and made her bleed.

She did not know why he had brought her here, and did not bother asking. Her lord would tell her when he so desired, and, if he didn’t, nothing she said would change his mind. And she would content herself with that.

The soft night breeze brushed her hair from her shoulders as they rounded the edge of a bluff to stand on a large, flat, rocky plain high above the gently sloping earth.

“Make camp,” Lucifer ordered, and Mazikeen complied, pulling off her heavy pack. She swept the area clean of the worst of the debris, laid out bedrolls, and retrieved brush to start a fire with flint. When it had fully caught, he returned from wherever he had gone, carrying a dun colored rabbit with a broken neck. He dressed it quickly, and soon it was roasting on a spit, fat sparking and crackling in the flames as it beaded down.

He retrieved a wineskin from his hip and took a long draw before offering it to her. She took it, the liquor acrid and ashen on her tongue as she drank. It tasted like home, and she felt less unbalanced as she handed the skin back. She wondered why they had walked up to this place and had not simply flown here directly, but, again, did not ask. Did not speak.

The rabbit slowly cooked, and when it turned from the color of liver to a rich brown, when the scent became nearly unbearable, sinking its claws into her stomach, he reached into the fire to retrieve it.

They ate in silence, save for the sounds of lips smacking and flesh being stripped from bones. Mazikeen stared into the flames, and, in the absence of Hell’s constant threat, her mind drifted to things that were better kept buried. Of her mother’s voice as she abandoned everything she knew. Of her lord’s wings shining with an inner light even during the ash storm that had nearly taken her life. Of her position as his second, still so new, still so strange.

Lucifer was not like anyone she had ever known, and sometimes, when she looked at him, something would ache beneath her ribs that confused and frightened her. But she pushed it down; she pushed it all down. She knew where they stood, and she was content with that. She licked the last of the fat from her fingers and stared up at the stars she knew he’d created.

But he was still looking into the fire, and, as the wind picked up and raised gooseflesh on her bare arms, he began to make a sound—to speak but not to speak. She had heard him use the language of the angels before, mumbled in his sleep or shouted at the sky when he believed no one was listening. It was a strange tongue that leapt and dropped and murmured and stuttered in ways that Lilim never did.

But this was not that, was not anything she had ever heard before. It rose and fell like the roiling Phlegethon, waxing and waning as the shining. hellish sea at the boundary of Lilith’s domain. It tore at that place under her ribs that sometimes itched with feelings she didn’t understand, but she couldn’t ignore them, this time. Not when the noises he was weaving in the air continued to pluck at the strings of her heart and set them alight with ardent flames.

She found herself torn between beauty and pain, despairing the first and desiring the second, but both came to her on wings of holiness. But what could be sacred to a demon who had never cared to know the light of God?

When the sounds died, she gasped, feeling something strange prick at her eyes. “What… was that?” she asked before she could stop herself, breaking her silence. This was not what she did, this was not who they were, but something was rising in her like a flood, pouring from her mouth as blood she could not staunch.

“It’s song, Mazikeen,” he said with a softness that confounded her further. “Music. It does not truly exist in Hell.”

She frowned, but a memory came to her; in the cells when they’d torture souls there was sometimes a sound that wasn’t quite screaming, one she hadn’t understood. “The humans…?”

“Ah, they sing for many reasons,” he said, chuckling. “In mating, as birds do. To express glee, in joyful times, and to raise spirits in sorrowful ones. In work, to maintain a rhythm, and to instruct their spawn.” He grimaced, but then his voice gentled further. “And, of course, to say things that cannot otherwise be spoken.”

He glanced into the distance, his eyes shining, but then he blinked and cleared his throat. “It is good to indulge in pleasures while on Earth,” he said, licking his lips salaciously, but it was an act, and they both knew it.

This was the game they played.

The silence was jarring, and she broke, wondering when exactly it was that she gained this desire to ask after something so inconsequential. “The humans created it, then?”

He shook his head and reached into the fire to stoke it back to life. “The humans have invented a good many things, but no. _That_ I created in the Silver City.” There was bitterness in his voice now.

Resentment was something she well understood; it was so much easier than regret. But there was something simpler than both, and she stood, stepping around the fire, crouching by his side. This was the game, too. She reached to unfasten his vest, but he caught her hands.

“Take off your trousers,” he told her, “and lie on your back.”

She rose, removed her boots, pulled down her leathers, and settled on the bedroll, staring up at the stars. He parted her legs and knelt between them. His fingers trailed up her thighs, over her hips, her waist, to cup her breasts. Even through the leather of her vest, she could feel his heat as he teased her, hands slipping up to brush the hair from her face, to tighten around her throat.

Her breathing shallowed, and she gave into the feeling. She tried to arch into him, but he pulled away at her movements, waiting for her to settle before resuming his careful touches to arms and breasts and neck and face. But she was impatient, and she pressed into every contact, chasing his hands when he pulled away.

“Mazikeen,” he said sharply, face inches from hers.

“My lord?” she challenged, running her foot up the back of his leg.

_“Behave,”_ he growled, but she only smirked and flipped them, slamming him into the hard stone. She kissed him, then, biting at his lips until he granted access to his mouth, pressing her tongue past his teeth viciously. He tasted of meat and wine and fire, scorching her mouth, but she only deepened the kiss, burying her hands in his hair, tugging it free of the oil he slicked it back with.

He groaned into her mouth, clutching at her ass, and she ground down against his heat. She pulled away to unfasten his trousers, but he sat up and rolled them back onto the bedroll. He panted against her neck, their hips still aligned, and she arched again, wrapping her legs around his waist.

And then he was gone from her embrace, again kneeling between her parted thighs. She shivered without the heat of his body against hers. She tried to sit up, but he grabbed her hips and held her in place. He bent his head down, nipping at the curve of her belly before running his tongue down between her lower lips. She stopped struggling, pressing her head back into the bedroll, looking up, again, at his stars.

He licked the slick from her, his nose tight against her clit, and she moaned at the pressure inside. _This_ was what she wanted from his mouth, not twisting melodies in the air. Not drawing strange feelings she didn’t want from her chest, but making her heart beat strongly with the motion of his lips and tongue. Her wetness was painting her thighs, and he was greedy for it, chasing it across her skin, biting the flesh there before returning to press the flat of his tongue against a sensitive spot inside, holding it there as he hummed and moaned.

She reached the verge quickly, as she always did, not often having time to draw things out, but when her legs wrapped around his back and her muscles twitched in time with the suckles to her clit, he pulled away, leaving her with one final flick of the tongue that jolted through her as lightning.

“No…” she muttered, her pulse thrumming in her ears, her hands reaching down to grab his head and drag him back down. But he resisted, glancing up at her with his hair wild, his mouth slick, and his eyes roiling with flames.

“Come _on,”_ she said, yanking at his hair. He snarled, but stayed in place, fixing her with his gaze.

“Ask for what you desire,” he said, voice hoarse, breath hot against her cunt.

“Fuck me.”

He hummed. “That sounds more like a command than a request.”

She growled; he laughed.

“Say _please.”_

She scowled down at him and jerked her hips up. But he wouldn’t relent, simply staring at her. The fire was dying beside them, and it died in his eyes as well. She clenched her hands into fists, feeling her fingernails cut into her palms. This was about something else, she knew, but she wasn’t certain what. And frankly, she didn’t care. She tensed her stomach, trying to bring her aching clit closer to his lips, but she was well and truly pinned.

_“Say it,”_ he hissed.

Above her head, the sky was beginning to fill with streaks of light, as if the stars themselves were tumbling from the heavens. She closed her eyes, preferring the throbbing darkness behind her eyelids to all that celestial splendor. There was so much more glory in the blood in her veins and the sex between her legs than all of Lucifer’s starlight and song. He had fallen from such heights, but here he prayed at _her_ altar, not some god’s.

He may have asked, but he was as bound by her answer as she was, now. His fingers shook against her hips, and he licked his lips idly even as he pretended at steadfastness. He was nearly as desperate as she was, his eyes flickering with the occasional flame, and it was this that let the _“please”_ pass her lips.

In an instant, he was upon her, yanking his trousers off just enough to press his cock against her clit, to rock his hips as he moved over her, bringing her back to the edge with practiced assurance. She keened, high and needy, too far gone to feel anything approaching shame. His hands fastened around her throat, cutting off her moan with a gasp, and she leaned into the pressure. This was so much easier than all his pretty words.

When her breaths began to come in pants, he acquiesced, finally tired of this game, sliding inside with a burn like hellfire. He started up a fast, ragged rhythm that caused her toes to curl and her eyes to roll up in her head.

One of his hands abandoned her throat to dig strong fingers into the stone by her head. The other moved to her hip, urging her into a better angle, and she wrapped her legs again around his waist. She clutched at his back, feeling the muscles tense, and dragged her fingernails across. He groaned from the pressure, even through the leather, and reached for the fastenings on her vest, pulling it apart and palming her breasts, pinching at her nipples.

She cried out, and her hands returned to his hair, pulling him back to her mouth. He tasted like her, now, musk and salt and iron, and she moaned softly against his lips as she licked past them, sliding over his teeth. For a moment, they slowed, foreheads pressed together, moving in unholy opposition, and there was something in the depths of his eyes that frightened her.

She snarled and bit his lip, hard, and he hissed, speeding up again, hips slamming into hers. She tasted blood, now, and it was sweet on her tongue as his fingers slipped down her belly to rub at her clit as he thrust deeper.

There was beauty in this, and a tender pain as he kissed and bit his way down to her collarbones, scraping his teeth across the flesh of her shoulder. She caught at the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and he whined against her chest. She laughed from pure joy, but then his thumb was tight against her clit, and she was tumbling over into sudden orgasm, muscles clenching around him as he stilled.

She panted, letting her head fall back to the bedroll again. But he was still hard inside of her, his pulse thick and fast, painting hot breaths over her chest. Her hands slipped from the back of his neck to his throat, and she tightened her grip around him, as if she could keep his words from hitting the air and bringing with them all these complications. She shifted his hips restlessly, and scraped her fingernails against his neck, urging him to move.

He chuckled breathlessly, vibrations strong in her hands where she held him. “Did you want something else?” he asked, but the humor in his voice was lost to his exertion.

She refused to speak, pressing her foot flat against the bedroll to flip them again. He didn’t fight her this time, merely looked up at her, dazed, yet still somehow challenging.

She sat up, braced her hands against his throat, and rolled her hips, speeding up until the tensing of her muscles and the delicious friction inside were the only things she could feel. She shut her eyes, head tilted up toward a light she’d gladly forsake a thousand times for the heat and pleasure between her legs. She didn’t know how to pray, but what use had she for prayers when she had the truer glory of bodies entwined in animal bliss?

And he was reaching for her, his fingertips against her cheek, her lip, beseeching her for something there were no words for, but she didn’t want any. She bit at his fingers as he pressed them past her lips, grinding her hips against his with all of her not inconsiderable strength. His hoarse, broken moans were sweeter than that thing he’d called music, inspiring more passion with their roughness than tenderness ever could.

The edge was approaching again, but he did not pull away, drawing her closer by the hair so they could breathe into each other’s mouths, her hands falling away from his throat to brace on the ground. Their eyes closed, hips meeting with increasing intensity. And she was so close, so close that a less than celestial light was bursting behind her eyelids, dragging her under with the ebb and flow of their bodies. And then his lips were on hers, again, barely kissing, pressing together like some kind of covenant. Some kind of vow.

And she was falling, and they were both falling, and the heat surged with his own plummet, and when she came back to herself, they were on their sides, half on the bedroll, half on the hard, stone ground. He was touching his fingertips to her lips, and she was tangling her hands in his hair.

They lay in the stillness of this moment for long enough the sky began to pale. But light was still streaking across the sky, and they were startled from their joined trance when, with an angry _whoosh_ and a dull, metallic _thud,_ something fell from the sky to land feet from them.

Mazikeen jumped to her feet, poised in a battle stance; Lucifer rose as well and calmed her with a hand on her shoulder.

“This is why we came,” he told her quietly, and stepped forward, approaching the thing that had broken a small crater into the rock. It was glowing yellow and white from heat, but he knelt before it, picking it up with something like reverence. He stood and returned to her, watching it as it cooled to orange, then red, then black with a silver sheen to it.

“What is it?” she asked, still caught up in whatever strange mood had overtaken them. And he, seemingly just as ensnared, answered her.

“The humans call it a falling star. It is metal from the heavens, the finest of metal. The strongest.” The moment ended as quickly as it had begun, and he turned away from her. “Clean up the campsite. We must return.”

She nodded and complied, stowing the bedrolls, retrieving the spit, stamping out what was left of the fire. When she was finished, he offered his hand, brought out his wings, and carried them back down to Hell.

* * *

Mazikeen had almost forgotten her and her lord’s strange Earthly visit—she had placed it beneath her ribs with the other things she could not allow herself to feel—when he called her again to his chambers.

“Ah, Mazikeen, you’re late,” Lucifer said distractedly, flattening his hair in the mirror. “There is a package for you.” He waved a hand at a side table on which there sat a good-sized, ornate box.

She stepped up to it, opening the lid. Inside lay two knives, elegant, curved, and vaned like his feathers. They shone with a dark, silvery light and had loops at the ends of the tangs. They seemed perfectly designed to slip between ribs, and they were also the perfect size to rest in her hands.

They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

“I had them forged,” her lord said, now slicking his hair back with oil from a small jar, “to lacerate any creature, infernal or celestial.”

_Celestial?_

She stared at them, then looked up at him. He watched her through the mirror. “Yes, that means you could kill me with those. But you’re clever enough not to try anything like _that,_ aren’t you?”

She nodded numbly.

He turned away, heading for his bed, presenting his bare back to her, and she finally understood what the game was. What it had always been. She picked up the knives, testing their weight, watching his shoulder blades shift under his skin. She slipped the blades, carefully, under the edge of her belt.

She would need to have sheathes made.


End file.
